Writing life

Poetry. The dying art.

The sea has travelled west to cross my path while I was travelling north to find mountains and in the moment I wondered where did it all start and is it the end. I have travelled so far away from home that I don’t remember what colour it was but I miss books and bed … Continue reading The Sea Sings

They stole parts of me when thoughts met like land and sea at the horizon and I mistook them as soul. Now there are patches and holes made by hope that transformed into expectation and the parts that remain are rotting every day, leaking poetry and song, unaware that there is a right time for … Continue reading can you stitch me?

I used to think fear is strange until I realised it doesn’t exist. I have always believed that freedom lies in controlled expression. Everything uncontrolled is just anger and rage and chaos I stay away from. Did I forget to tell that I am a Clown and this isn’t a joke? Clowns think before they … Continue reading Clown

I am searching for poetry in words that lingers on your lips. Poetry that will be my strong morning coffee in chill of winter. Maybe someday I will collect all those words and some paper will be lucky enough to feel their rage. For now I am tired, feeling unloved, empty for the lack of … Continue reading Where I search for poetry…

Once upon a time, love changed. It was too tired of the position it held, for years, too tired of sleeping straight, so it twisted a bit- E and V exchanged their positions and now it's read Loev. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- *In conversation with love* “What has changed?” “Everything.” “By just a change in spelling? Why did … Continue reading Loev

Before she left, she washed me. She washed every bit of my skin as if she had committed a sin which needs to be removed. The tiniest cell on my skin felt her hand destroying marks her lips had left, scratches her nails had dug, and letters she wrote in languages unknown to me. Before … Continue reading 10 years older.

Omran Daqneesh sits in the back of an ambulance after being dug from the debris of an air strike in Syria on Thursday.Photograph by Mahmud Rslan / Anadolu / Getty What else can it be? The boy who was having troubles with his father, sat in his office; a father, who might have, for the … Continue reading Fate

My hands stretch out to find something as if my palms inhale fresh air under a tree facing the morning sun and try to follow the smell. It is searching for something, it always has since birth. And don’t confuse it with another love poem, for it's not another hand or the hot coffee with … Continue reading Hands

I wonder about origin all the time. In pits of time lies a beautiful beginning of all the poems with soft kicks and loud cries, and that beautiful smile of the poetess, usually alive. I like beginnings, but origins intrigues me. Isn’t it fascinating, how just an idea can be converted in words, and how … Continue reading Origin

I am no lover, just a silent stranger, and you attract me; your art, your mind and not this body which melts with time, into the shackles of earth, and mix in rubbles of fumbling mankind. I see you, with a ‘hi’ oscillating in my vocal cord; words of appreciation gets entangled in my tongue, which I swallow. Deep down there is a child that still fears to cross the boundary laid by uncivilized civilians.